


these hands, if not God's

by tinyelectricguitar



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Catholic Guilt, Catholic School, Fluff, M/M, this is a catholic au incase you couldn't tell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29111412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyelectricguitar/pseuds/tinyelectricguitar
Summary: The Greeks thought the only way to find God was through one’s lover. Pierre and Charles hope they’re right. Otherwise, this is all dreadfully wrong.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	these hands, if not God's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersoft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoft/gifts).



> this is my SON i hope you like it!
> 
> find me on tumblr at maxspeeds.tumblr.com!

**_Corinthians 5:7_ **

_For we walk by faith, not by sight._

Charles Leclerc was a beautiful boy. It was what his mother had always told him. He’s sure other parents told their children the same thing, but it was different. He knew it was different because his mother always told him.

_-_

_“You’re the prettiest child I’ve ever seen.” she would say, arranging his fluffy hair just so._

_“I’m your son, mama.” Charles blushed._

_“Yes, Charles,” she would roll her eyes, “but I’m right. I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true, you know that.”_

_He would lean into the hand fixing his collar, fixing his hair, pinching his cheeks pink before it was gone all too soon. The camera’s tick tick ticking self timer would begin and he’d feel two smooth hands descend on his shoulders. The matter of fact weight of his father’s larger one, the delicate perch of his mother’s. Then the little click would sound and they would scatter like a herd._

_His mother would pull out the polaroid with long, manicured nails. “We look perfect.”_

_Charles would spend the rest of Christmas alone, wishing fervently for the beautiful, happy family in the photograph to come to life._

_-_

So by now, newly 17, Charles knew he was beautiful. Even if he didn’t believe his mother, the adoring gazes of his classmates and the approving nods of their neighbours at church was enough to convince even a fool.

Charles had become used to being looked at. It was the mantle he had to carry and his mother had taught him to do it without complaint. So it was thrilling, now, to be the one doing the looking.

He told himself he took the longer route home from school during the summers to enjoy the rare sun, to escape from the sycophants who wanted to hold his hand, kiss his cheek, pass him a cigarette. But with every passing day, it was getting more and more difficult to ignore what an important part of his day the basketball court had become.

It was halfway home, with a little park across from it, where Charles could sit and have a breather, read a little on the sun-warmed bench. Where he could see onto the basketball court but he was pretty sure they couldn’t see him. _They._ “Rough and tumble boys” his mother had called them. They went to the public school down the road, wore their shirts tucked out and their ties stupidly short. They had messy hair and scraped knees and they all played sports. 

The only argument between his mother and father he’d ever been privy to, secretive as they were, was when his father had tried to get him to join the football team. His mother had scoffed in disbelief and then screamed about how her beautiful son wasn’t going to be kicked and bruised by some rough and tumble boys. His father had raised his voice back about how he’s meant for more than looking at, Claire. Charles had slipped out of the room quietly. He thought football might be fun, but then again he had never liked getting dirty.

The other boys didn’t seem to mind. They were always yelling, playing loud, horrible music. Either playing so quick and rough that Charles had to wince with it or, more often, just standing around and smoking, taking turns “shooting hoops”. Smoking. Charles shuddered. It seemed like a crime to simply watch them. But Charles couldn’t help it, his gaze drawn like a magnet to the boys. Real boys, not like him, not bodies to be looked at but bodies at work, at play. Bruises littering tanned skin (he didn’t know what his mother would hate more, a bruise or a tan), shouts and curse words flowing free from chapped lips, fingers stained with nicotine and ballpoint ink. Watching them made Charles feel like he could reach out and be a part of that camaraderie, that easy childhood.

One of them, the prettiest one (Charles had decided on his second day reading on the bench) was blond. It seemed like a bad dye job but it worked, somehow. Even from metres, away Charles could make out the pink of his lips that the cigarettes never seemed to dull, the glow of his skin, the pulling and stretching of his muscles as he jumped and dodged and threw. He didn’t know his name but he guessed he was French, from the way "Putain!" rolled off his tongue like second nature.

He was a different kind of pretty than Charles, more muscular. And Charles would know — the boy's loose tank tops constantly fluttering as he ran and jumped around didn't leave much to the imagination. Luckily, Charles wasn't particularly imaginative, try as he might.

Pretty as he may be, Charles would have probably forgotten all about him, preferring the Whitman he was reading to watching their awful basketball game. But on the third day of his little routine, as he got up from the bench and walked past the court, heading the rest of the way home, he felt the familiar, burning feeling of eyes on the back of his head.

_-_

_"OI!" a rough voice had called._

_Charles had squeezed his eyes shut even as his body turned instinctually. A boy in all black was staring at him, arms crossed. His mother would have a fit if she saw him interacting with someone like that._

_"Oi, what are you doing out of your prep school playground, pretty boy?”_

_Charles blinked. The boy made “pretty” sound like poison._

_A halo of blond appeared behind his aggressor. A hand on his shoulder, the other holding the basketball to a slim waist._

_“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Julien.” the blond boy smirked easily at ‘Julien’._

_“Come on, leave him alone.” He put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back to their game._

_-_

He hadn’t been able to help but keep a special eye on the blond boy since then. And it wasn’t exactly a hardship to watch him as he laughed and whooped and ran circles around the other boys. And if watching him smoke, to lift up his shirt to wipe his sweaty forehead sent the blood rushing to Charles’ cheeks, well then, it was just the embarrassment.

It was one of the hottest days of the year. By the time he’d waved off the two brunettes from his math class and reached his spot, book in hand, the game had already begun in earnest. The blond’s team seemed to be losing, not that Charles was following too closely. After another chorus of whoops and disappointed groans, Charles glanced up from the book, only to have his heart leap. He realised the movement that had caught his eye was the smooth arc of the blond’s arm as he pulled his thin black t-shirt over his head, and tossed it aside. Expanses of golden skin, smooth and lean and fluid gleamed at Charles. He forced his eyes back to the poetry. Sonnets were a bad choice for today.

Already beginning to sweat, he decided earlier than usual that it was time to make his usual unluckily conspicuous exit. Just as he made his purposefully aloof way home in front of the court, he heard a chorus of yells —“Out of bounds!”.

He walked a little faster. The bounce of the ball and the clang of it hitting the enclosure metres away from his head made Charles jump a little.

“Sorry.”

It was the blond.

Charles turned to look at him, shaking his head shyly.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” he bit out, as his eyes finally met the blue, blue eyes of the boy he’d been watching.

The blond dye job looked better up close somehow. Charles was fighting a losing battle to not let his eyes skip to the boy’s sweat sheened, bare torso. Even though their basketball games seemed to devolve into smoking and being a neighbourhood menace so quickly, the boy had the clearly toned body of a sportsman.

“Like what you see?” the boy smirked at him.

Charles met his eyes like a deer in the headlights, clutching his book closer to his uniformed chest.

The boy sighed. “I was just kidding. I’m Pierre, by the way.”

So much for Charles being subtle.

“Pierre.” he tested it out. “I’m Charles.” It fit.

He cursed the blush that he could feel blooming on his pale face. Pierre smirked again, reaching for his water bottle, stretching more than he needed to as he threw his head back to drink. His other hand was holding the basketball to his (bare) waist again. Charles swallowed even as he rolled his eyes at Pierre’s ( _Pierre)_ obvious showboating. Pierre shot him a sheepish smile in turn.

“Well, Charles, hope the book was good today. Bye.” and with that, Pierre returned to his friends, gathered around their speakers.

Pierre knew his name now. He had noticed Charles reading before. Charles wheeled around and took off, keeping his pace deliberately measured even as he felt the prickle of doing something he shouldn’t crawl across his skin. The molasses of guilt in his stomach and the thrill in his spine combined to make something intoxicating. Charles didn’t remember the last time he had thought someone was worth talking to, and of course, it would be this, this _punk._ Why was his life never easy.

He shook his head as if it would shake the whole insane ritual from his head, resolving to find a new spot to hide from home and read. And he would have, if he hadn’t felt that familiar feeling. The heat of eyes on him. He couldn’t help but turn, only to catch those eyes (not blue from so far) as they met his. Pierre was leaning against a wall, cigarette to his lips, ignoring the conversation around him as he looked at Charles. His mother would hate this habit if she knew about it.

Charles turned and picked up his pace, the feeling not leaving till he rounded the corner. He found he didn’t mind being looked at if it was Pierre doing the looking. And he was beginning to think that was a problem.

**Author's Note:**

> fic moodboard (!!!) here: 
> 
> https://mushroomlance.tumblr.com/post/636057979671707648/he-might-be-the-picture-of-holy-obedience-but


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